


Red and Wet

by quillingyousoftly



Series: MCU Kink Bingo fills [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Consensual Sex, Food Kink, Food Porn, Food Sex, Foreplay, Grapefruits, Grindr, Large Cock, M/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Strangers, The grapefruit is more of a toy so it doesn't need to consent, Toxic Masculinity, creepy Jack Rollins, hookup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillingyousoftly/pseuds/quillingyousoftly
Summary: Brock raises his eyebrows. That is the weirdest pick-up line that has ever been used on him. At least, he hopes that’s a pick-up line.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow, Jack Rollins/Grapefruit
Series: MCU Kink Bingo fills [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626025
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25
Collections: MCU Kink Bingo Round 4





	Red and Wet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> Special thanks go to SplinterCell who unintentionally inspired the whole fruit sex thing, and to my friends who somehow still want to be my friends despite me going on about fruit sex and teeth.
> 
> Written for the Free Square on my bingo card for which I chose Grindr Hookup.

**Murderer 30**

**Online now**

**1320 feet away**

**Age play, pet play, piss, blood, eyeball licking, teeth, orgies, sadism, masochism, sensory deprivation, mummification, and fruit, which says a lot about me.**

  
  


Brock has been staring at the dark picture for five minutes. At first, he has thought it was all black, but as he squints at it now, he notices edges and lighter spots. It’s not enough to tell if it’s a person hiding in the shadows.

Not fifteen minutes ago, he came home after a long day at work with only one thought on his mind: he wanted to fuck. It was easier to find someone available and ready on Grindr than on Tinder, and he had no patience to sweet talk girls tonight. He made himself comfortable on the couch and scrolled through the profiles of horny guys in his area with a twink on his mind until he stumbled into the puzzle that is Murderer (what the fuck? It isn’t his real name, is it?), 30. 

It has to be some kind of roleplay thing; Brock has met many psychos in his line of work; he could easily imagine them doing some of this stuff, not that he wanted to. He has always been more on the vanilla side himself, hasn’t ever been curious about BDSM and kink. But now, he’s curious about Murderer, 30. 

It must be his detective mode kicking in; there’s a Murderer and a mystery to solve. Or several mysteries. For example, what he means by ‘fruit’. And why it’s listed after ‘mummification’. Is it an actual mummification? Is the guy an actual murderer? How many guys have messaged him and is he hot?

So many questions and no answers so far. But there’s an easy way to get them: he just needs to message the guy.

**Brock: Is that your real name?**

Murderer doesn’t reply immediately, and Brock guesses he’s checking out his profile. He briefly wonders what a character like him might think about it; there’s just a simple picture of his face and one line of bio, saying he’s down to fuck an eager twink. Nothing more; it’s not like he’s interested in anything beyond a one-night stand. Or a one-hour stand, really.

**Murderer is typing…**

**Murderer: My parents don’t hate me that much.**

Brock stares at it for a minute with his brows furrowed, but then decides it’s a joke if simply because he doesn’t want to know how much the guy’s parents hate him exactly. But that already explains so much.

**Brock: Are you a real murderer then?**

**Murderer: What are you, a cop?**

**Brock: Yeah, actually.**

**Murderer: It’s an inside joke.**

**Brock: Does anyone else get it?**

**Murderer: Maybe.**

**Murderer: So are you on here to interrogate potential criminals? Because if not, and you enjoy being murdered, I can do that for you.**

Brock raises his eyebrows. That is the weirdest pick-up line that has ever been used on him. Not that the sluts he usually talks to are very creative with them.

At least, he hopes that’s a pick-up line.

**Brock: What’s with that fruit in your bio?**

**Murderer: Exactly what you think it is.**

Brock frowns. No way… This entire profile must be a joke. It’s probably some teenage girls having a giggle, there’s no way this is real.

**Brock: You mean to tell me you fuck fruits?**

**Murderer: Yeah.**

**Brock: Are there like fruit orgies?**

**Murderer: Yeah.**

**Brock: What does it look like? You circle jerk on an apple?**

**Murderer: Not exactly.**

**Murderer: We don’t use apples, usually. Grapefruits are my personal preference.**

“That just sounds painful. That’s not real. You’re not real. You’re a girl having a laugh,” Brock types angrily, a thought that his job is yet again stealing the time he could spend fucking some pretty twink lurking in the back of his mind.

**Murderer: I’m very real. I can show you.**

**Murderer: But I’m not a twink.**

For the briefest moment, Brock wonders if Murderer can read minds, but then he realizes he’s just referencing his bio. A picture comes in before he thinks of a good answer.

He sits up straighter. He didn’t expect Murderer to be a twink when he saw his age; Brock usually goes for guys in their early twenties. He felt a bit weird about it at first, but they’re simply a safer choice since men closer to his age are usually looking for something long term. 

Murderer appears more mature with his stubble and a scar on his chin hiding beneath it, and there’s something in his eyes that suggests hidden depths to his character. The picture is taken in a dimly lit room, and the shadows give his face sharper features. He’s also shirtless, Brock realizes as he looks down the column of his neck to the wide shoulders and defined pecs. He raises his eyebrows with grudging approval. Not his type, not at all, but the guy looks _good_. Maybe even enough to meet him, if he can get past the fruit thing.

He realizes he has been taking his sweet time staring at the zoomed in picture when he gets another message.

**Murderer: Like what you see?**

**Brock: I ain’t complaining.**

**Murderer: You could look in person.**

**Murderer: What are you interested in?**

**Brock: Nothing from what you listed.**

**Murderer: It’s for those who are actively looking for it. But I’m not all about that. We can do something else.**

**Murderer: What do you like?**

**Brock: Normal stuff.**

**Murderer: Define normal.**

**Brock: Fair point. Anal and oral. I don’t care about hand jobs, I can do that myself.**

**Brock: And I top, of course.**

**Murderer: Of course.**

Brock isn’t sure why his face heats up in response to that remark, but it annoys him enough to exit the conversation and scroll through some more profiles. But he knows it’s futile as Murderer keeps writing him, and Brock is still morbidly curious about him. He wonders what the rest of his body looks like.

**Murderer: I’m sure we can figure something out. Or try something tamer if you’re curious.**

**Murderer: You said you were a cop, do you have handcuffs?**

**Brock: Just zip ties.**

**Murderer: Those would work nicely, too.**

Brock pulls on his lower lip as he briefly considers it, but he can’t imagine letting a stranger tie him up, or what he’d do with a tied up stranger for that matter. And there is a sliver of chance this guy is an actual serial killer…

**Brock: I don’t think I’m into that.**

**Murderer: Shame.**

**Murderer: Come over and we’ll see where it takes us.**

Brock stares at the address Murderer’s sent him. He recognizes the street, it’s only fifteen minutes away. He could drive there and take a look, he can always turn back and message some twink after all, the night’s still young.

So he replies that he’ll think about it, goes offline, and gets up to put his boots on.

*

The neighborhood looks… normal. A normal apartment block with a normal parking lot, with normal people passing by. Instinct isn’t screaming at Brock to turn back, so he opens Grindr—Murderer’s still online—and lets him know he’s coming over.

**Brock: Are you alone?**

**Murderer: Why, are you hoping for an orgy?**

**Brock: No.**

**Murderer: It’ll be just you, me, and the skeletons in my closet.**

It’s a joke, Brock tells himself as he exits his car, the weight of the gun in his thigh holster helping him feel safer. He never needed to bring a gun to a Grindr hookup before. What is he doing?

He’s already ringing the intercom when his doubts arise again and he’s not a fucking pussy to change his mind and run away at the last moment. It’s unlikely the guy is an actual serial killer, anyway. Teenage girls pranking men is a more probable option. Maybe he was given a random address and the door will be answered by a confused elderly lady.

He’s let in without anyone asking who he is though, so he assumes Murderer is a real guy with a morbid sense of humor. He climbs to the second floor, spends a moment making sure he has the right door (and that he actually wants to go through with this—what if Murderer has a weird dick? He should have asked for a picture), then knocks.

His mouth goes a little dry when the door opens and he’s met face to face with the mystery he’s been longing to solve. Murderer is taller than him, and his shoulders broader. He’s looking down at him with a judging frown on his face. They exchange an awkward greeting, and Murderer steps aside to let him in. There’s an odd scent hanging in the air, like Murderer has been smoking something, but not tobacco or weed.

“The picture doesn’t do you justice,” Murderer says as Brock takes off his boots.

“Uh, thanks,” Brock says, taken aback by the compliment. “It’s, uhm, good to see you in a better light.”

Murderer nods, acknowledging Brock’s inability to pay compliments. “Are you really forty?”

“Yep,” Brock replies warily, unsure where this is going. Some twinks would call him daddy; he doesn’t like that, and since Murderer apparently has some daddy issues on top of some mommy issues, there’s a chance he might want to do that. 

“I wouldn’t tell.”

Brock realizes it’s another compliment and nods his thanks. “Don’t call me daddy though.”

“Sure thing. It’s not really my scene, anyway.”

Brock smirks at that. “Something isn’t?”

Murderer mirrors his expression. “You’d be surprised. Would you like something to drink?”

“I didn’t come here for a drink.”

Something changes in Murderer’s eyes at those words. He reminds Brock of a predator hunting his prey as he approaches him slowly with his gaze trained on him, careful not to scare him off. Brock isn’t a prey, though, and he closes the distance between them, like another predator fighting for dominance.

He doesn’t usually kiss his Grindr dates, but he meets Murderer’s mouth head-on. Kissing him is different from kissing a woman; his stubble makes his lips prickle, and the force and need behind the kiss is far from feminine. It’s full of teeth and tongue, and Murderer pushes onto him, crowds him with his whole body that’s pure solid muscle without any soft spots until he’s cornered. But Brock fights back; uses his teeth to bite his lips, his hands to tug at his clothes until he hears a fabric rip. They pause then, panting each other’s air, and when Murderer leans away just enough to look down, Brock realizes what he’s holding, and his blood runs cold.

“You brought a gun?” Murderer asks, his hand resting on top of the holster, but not trying to open it. “You thought I was actually dangerous?”

He sounds like he’s mocking him, and Brock squares up, meeting his gaze defiantly. 

“Better safe than sorry.”

“True that. Well, do you wanna play with it, since it’s already here?”

A chill crawls down Brock’s back, and he shakes his head.

“Well, then take it off.”

Brock feels uneasy again as he walks out of the hallway and in the living room to take off his holster and set it down on the coffee table. He takes a moment to collect himself, pretending he's interested in looking around the room. It’s minimalistic; white walls, dark furniture, and a big black tv screen. No decorations or even plants, as if Murderer has just moved in, which could be the case considering Brock never saw him on Grindr before.

When he turns around, he finds Murderer watching him with a smoldering gaze. There’s a slight color in his cheeks, and a hole in the sleeve of his loose gray button-up where Brock tore it. Seeing that Murderer clearly wants him gives Brock’s his confidence back, and he smirks.

“Well? Whatcha doin’ all the way there?”

As Murderer reaches him in a couple swift strides to claim his mouth again, Brock briefly thinks that if he was one of those slutty twinks he always goes for, he’d be already fucking him. Murderer is nothing like them; something about him makes Brock nervous, and he’s never been nervous on a date before, certainly not since he was seventeen. 

He unzips Murderer’s pants and works them off his hips along with the underwear, then brings his hand up to his cock, making Murderer groan into his mouth as he runs his palm over it. It doesn’t end where Brock expects it to, and he breaks the kiss to look down and take in the biggest cock he has ever seen in person. 

“That must be uncomfortable,” he quips, silently glad it isn’t going inside his body. He wonders if anyone lets Murderer top them with a size like that; if he was a bottom, he’d be intimidated.

“You get used to it,” Murderer responds casually, his face now as flushed as his cock. “Your turn.”

Murderer starts from his top, pulling it over his head and dropping it to the floor to run his hands down his sculpted chest. Brock’s not used to be admired like this, but it feels nice, so he lets Murderer take his time. His gaze on him feels almost as hot as his touch and makes his skin break in sweat. Both take in a shaky breath when Murderer’s fingers reach his lower abdomen and he finally undoes his pants to pull them down. He’s rock hard now, too, and Murderer stares at him, licking his lips, giving Brock a clue on what’s about to happen.

Murderer grips Brock’s hips tighter and leads him away from the center of the room to the black shammy leather couch standing at the far wall. Brock sits down, and Murderer kneels between his legs, his face so close to his cock Brock thinks he can feel his stubble on the sensitive skin. He takes it in his hand and guides it to Murderer’s mouth, rubbing the tip on his lips until he has him open for him beautifully.

Murderer takes him as far as he can without choking, closes his lips around the hilt and presses his tongue underneath. He doesn’t move at first, getting used to the feel of it, and when he finally does pull back slowly, his eyes darkened with desire are boring into Brock’s. Brock lets him get acquainted with it, watching him drool on it and lick it and take more of it with each new bob of his head until his lips swell and redden much like the cock he’s sucking. That’s when he closes his eyes, secure in the control he has and focused solely on his task, and that’s when the time comes to take that control away from him. Brock twists his fingers into his hair and thrusts forcefully. His cock jabs the back of Murderer’s throat, making him gag. Brock lets out a moan at the feel of tight muscles contracting around him and keeps fucking into him, making him gag and choke and splutter. Surprised by that turn of events, Murderer searches his face with wet eyes, and panting, Brock grins down at him.

“Good boy,” he soothes, patting his head.

Murderer goes limp in his grip, and his throat relaxes, letting Brock thrust past it as he brings Murderer’s head close to his lower abdomen. It doesn’t take long after for him to finish; his thighs tremble as his body tenses all over, and he shoots down Murderer’s throat with a long, choked groan.

He comes down with Murderer’s head resting against his thigh and his fingers still tangled in his hair. He’s still catching his breath, the sweat not yet dry on his skin when he thinks he should be halfway to the door already. Normally, he would be, his partner’s orgasm be damned.

He gently frees his fingers, and Murderer glances up at him with a faraway look in his eyes. Brock can’t help but rub his cheek with his thumb, still a little wet from sweat, tears, and saliva, and Murderer leans into it.

“So,” Brock says with a smirk playing on his lips and watches him blink back to reality. “Will you reveal your name or am I supposed to call you Murderer?”

“Shit,” Murderer says as it dawns on him he in fact didn’t introduce himself. “Where are my manners? I’m Jack Rollins.”

Brock snorts in surprise. “ _Jack?!"_

Jack frowns. “What’s wrong with my name?”

Brock shrugs. “It’s just so ordinary! Doesn’t fit you at all. I was expecting, I don’t know, Gawain or something.” 

Jack only smiles in response. Brock offers his hand.

“Well, nice to meet you, Jack Rollins. I’m Brock Rumlow.”

“Oh, hi.” 

Jack adjusts himself to awkwardly shake his hand. As he leans away, Brock looks down at his cock, still very much flushed and throbbing.

“That still doesn’t look comfortable,” he remarks without really knowing why; it’s not like he wishes to do something about it. 

“Yeah…” Jack looks down at it as well. “Are you sure you aren’t curious about anything from what I listed in my profile? I could take care of that while showing you something.”

Brock shrugs. He got off and should be out the door already, but on the other hand he came here to find out if Murderer’s persona is real. It won’t hurt to stay and watch. “Sure, what can you show me?”

Jack pulls himself up to his feet and walks away with a wide gait, holding his cock against his stomach so it doesn’t bob too much. Brock watches after him, wondering if he should follow, but Jack returns a moment later, carrying a grapefruit. Brock laughs in disbelief.

“No way.”

“Since you had a hard time believing in this one.” Jack winks at him and sits down beside him with the grapefruit in his lap.

Brock isn’t sure how he feels exactly as he watches Jack gently peel the grapefruit. He shouldn’t feel anything; it is just that, peeling a fruit, but it weirds him out. Jack handles the grapefruit like it is his lover, fingers gently massaging the hard skin and peeling it off like he’s undressing it.

“It’s weird,” Brock mumbles.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. “It’s nice though.”

The admission doesn’t make Brock feel better, so he continues watching in silence, his mouth a little dry. Jack parts the fruit and sets a half away. The other, he puts down on display on the coffee table. He takes in a deep breath as he starts fingering the ruby red segments enveloped in delicate white skin. 

“What are you doing?” 

Jack sends him a smirk. “Foreplay.”

His finger is now rubbing the inside of the fruit, and Brock can smell not only its slightly bitter aroma but also Jack’s arousal. When he glances at his cock, he sees it drooling against his stomach. 

“You’re really into it,” he realizes with a start.

Jack hums in response, his eyes not leaving the grapefruit. He presses inside with two fingers, slowly breaking the flesh and causing the small hole to fill with red juice. It makes something stir in Brock’s own crotch, to his surprise. Is some suggestive visual really all it takes?

“You got it all wet!” he jokes, hoping to ease the heat growing between his legs.

Jack makes a sound that is not quite a moan. His fingers gently penetrate the fruit, in and out, mimicking sex. Brock can’t help but eye his cock, the tip glistening with precome. He starts wondering how Jack can get off on just fingering the fruit, when he takes out his fingers with a grunt. He cradles the leaking, sticky fruit in one hand and digs a condom out of the pocket of his discarded pants.

“Let me,” Brock says, sitting up straighter. “You don’t want that juice on your dick.”

Jack gratefully hands him the packet. Brock tears it open and takes pleasure in pulling it over Jack’s large cock. It’s really something, and while Brock doesn’t want it inside him, he’d like to own such a specimen. He won’t mind watching it climax, not at all.

He gives Jack a stroke once the condom’s on and takes his hand away, licking his lips with a smile and nodding at the grapefruit. Jack smiles back and brings the dripping fruit to his crotch. The touch of its slick flesh is but a gentle caress at first as Jack moves the fruit up and down his cock, his breath hitching every now and then. 

Brock’s mouth is drying fast as he watches Jack tease himself, his sweaty body arching up for more friction. His hips are rolling slowly against the grapefruit, more red juice dripping down his cock onto his stomach and the couch, until the head of his cock catches the hole he had made with his fingers and he moans. He pauses to catch his breath and adjust his grip on the fruit, then lines his cock up with the hole. He thrusts, letting out a soft grunt, and Brock finds himself leaning in to watch closely as the soft red flesh gets ruined by the hard intrusion, his hand finding his half-hard cock on its own. 

Jack cradles the grapefruit in both hands now, thrusting in earnest, his breath fast and shallow, but Brock can still see how his cock destroys the fruit between his long fingers; can see the flesh breaking, juice dripping, Jack’s cockhead almost protruding. His breath hitches when he realizes Jack is about to fuck through, and he holds his breath in anticipation. It takes three more thrusts for Jack’s red, throbbing cock to break the fruit in half. His body is almost entirely off the couch, just leaning against it with his upper back and calves, and he fills the condom, his moan long and hoarse as he does. 

He looks boneless when he flops back onto the couch, messy parts of the grapefruit in both his hands. Brock’s breathing hard as he watches his cock soften slowly, and it’s still mostly up when Jack finally opens his eyes and looks at Brock with an expression of pure bliss.

“Wow,” Brock chokes out.

Jack’s eyes travel down his body to where he’s still gripping his now full erection and grins. “Someone enjoyed the show.”

He pulls himself up to his feet and walks to what Brock assumes is a bathroom, his thighs still trembling a little. Brock adjusts himself and glances at the pile of his clothes in the middle of the floor. He doesn’t want to leave with his cock hard, maybe Jack will be up for some more fun.

Jack exits the bathroom, still naked, with his cock now soft, and it’s still an impressive size. He wipes the juice off the couch with a cloth, discards it on the coffee table, and sits down beside Brock, close enough for their thighs to brush.

“So? What do you think?” he asks, his fingers ghosting up his leg.

Brock thinks it was completely fucking bizarre even if it turned him on, but he goes for a more flirtatious answer. “Can’t you tell?”

He looks up to meet Jack’s gaze, but Jack’s staring down at his cock. Brock can feel him fingering his hip. So far, so good.

“Would you like to try it?”

“Not really,” Brock admits. “I’d feel weird. But I’d like to watch you again.”

“I’d like that, too.”

Jack dives and takes Brock’s cock in his mouth. Brock grips his hair and leans his head back, closing his eyes.

“Oh, yeah…”

*

It’s still dark when Brock wakes up in Jack’s bed. Jack’s asleep, curled in a ball beside him, and Brock watches him, trying to figure out what to do now. He didn’t plan to stay the night, he never does, but after his second orgasm he was exhausted, so Jack fed him and put him to bed. Brock doesn’t intend to stay for breakfast, though. He should leave.

He sits up and his eyes fall on Jack’s closet. He remembers the skeletons in the closet joke, and hell, he _knows_ it was just a joke, but he also knows serial killers. They get cocky and, in a way, they want to get caught. It won’t hurt to check.

He gets out of bed and creeps over to the closet. Inside, he finds… clothes. Nothing more. He’s about to sigh in relief when he hears a voice behind him.

“So are you a cop or a thief?”

Oops. Suppressing a cringe, Brock closes the closet and turns around.

“If I were, I wouldn’t be looking for valuables in your closet,” he points out.

“Why are you checking it for the bodies of my victims then?”

Hell, Jack’s smarter than Brock expected. But Brock’s even smarter.

“I’m cold, was looking for a sweater,” he lies easily. He meets Jack’s penetrating stare with a shrug.

Jack reaches out for him. “Come back here, then, I’ll warm you up.”

Brock glances at the door. He’s sure that if he said he wanted to leave, Jack would let him go, so why is he hesitating?

He takes a step towards the bed, then another. Maybe staying for breakfast won’t be so bad.

Jack has him enveloped in his arms, his hard body pressed flush against him, when he says, “What kinda cop are you? They’re obviously in the freezer.”

That’s a joke, Brock’s sure, and so he nuzzles closer. Staying isn’t such a bad idea, after all; now all he needs to do is to wait for Jack to fall asleep and check that goddamn freezer.

**Author's Note:**

> Some answers to the pressing questions you might have after reading this: yes, I'm okay, yes, I needed a drink after writing this, no, I didn't have it, yes, it's the weirdest thing I've ever written, and no, it's not the weirdest thing I've ever read.
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> A sexy visual:  
> 


End file.
